


Flyboy Asylum

by Mogseltof



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bickering, Canon Disabled Character, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Deaf/HOH Clint Barton, Gen, Gen Work, Holoforms (Transformers), Humour, Josh Boyfriend, Multiple canons, Not Canon Compliant, POV Tony Stark, Secret Identity, Team Dynamics, Technobabble, dumbassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mogseltof/pseuds/Mogseltof
Summary: Hiding a literal alien in plain sight? Tricky. Hiding a literal alien who can turn himself into a fighter jet, though? In theory;mucheasier.Butwhywould you hide an alien who can turn himself into a fighter jet when you couldemployhim instead? It's a good plan. Especially if the people hiding your alien don't know what they're hiding. Any plan's worth a shot, and the more hands on deck, the better.Absolutely no one in this scenario is getting paid enough for this shit, except for Tony.
Comments: 105
Kudos: 120





	1. An Unlikely Meeting

“Are you trying to insult me?” asked Tony in his best casual tone. He tossed the file with the glossy photos on the table and laced his hands over his midsection, kicking his feet up on the table and leaning back in the shitty SHIELD conference room chairs. “Because I’m harder to rattle than that, I’ll have you know. This is a pretty pathetic idea of an insult. Or is it meant to be a joke?”

The military liaison raised an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise react. Clearly the Stark reputation was still doing the rounds in the defence quarters. Fury ignored him, paying more attention to the slight furrow between Romanov’s brow than Tony’s outburst. Rogers’ eyes were on Tony but he ignored it. 

“No, seriously, I gotta know,” said Tony, upping the volume a little and making a gesture towards the discarded file. Barton, across the table, didn’t even bother to be surreptitious as he reached up and turned off his hearing aids, not looking up from the specs in front of him. “I come to you with a generously funded, fully green energy, five engine redundancy jet better than literally anything on the market and this is your returning serve? An F-22? We’re not at the kiddie table anymore, gentlemen, it’s time to take things a little more seriously than this.”

“Your proposal for the quinjet was noted, Mr Stark,” said Hill in her polished, bored tone, looking at him with her dead eyed, boardroom ready, poker face stare. “But as we said at the time, the manufacturing cost makes it untenable for any kind of long term—“

“It’s one jet,” snapped Tony, meeting her stare with his own version of the boardroom business jerk. He’d been in these kinds of meetings since he was twenty one, and he was very used to uptight suits operating under the misapprehension that he didn’t know what he was talking about. “Privately manufactured, it’s very cute that you think I’d give SHIELD the kind of access you’d need to handle making it yourself—“

“Jets break, Mr Stark,” said Fury loudly, not even bothering to look away from Romanov, who’s brow had smoothed back out. “The Avengers have trashed six SHIELD airforce vehicles in the last two months alone, and quite frankly, I have a department head far more valuable than you threatening to quit if I allow your team access to her division anymore. While your generous offer to eat those costs yourself and bring your team even further under the umbrella of private management and away from accountability for your damages is noted, the department of defence has very kindly offered us this olive branch of cooperation by allowing us access to this project. You will notice this is a briefing, not a group workshop.”

“An F-22 is not a project, it’s a cast off,” argued Tony, sneering as he picked up one of the pictures. “What, budget couldn’t stretch to spare a 35? Exactly how is an F-22 going to help transport a team of multiple people? A single seat Raptor—“

“This is a modified F-22,” said the military liaison, Fairston, Fairly? Whatever her name was. She hadn’t even given rank when she was introduced. “If you’ll examine the specs in the file—“

“I’m familiar with the limitations of a 22, thanks sweetheart,” drawled Tony, turning his attention to her with a mean smirk. “This is not my first airforce rodeo, you might be aware. Don’t get me wrong, Lockheed Martin are great — very dependable, if you’re into that kind of thing — but Stark engineering they are not. We’re a specialist team, we have specialist needs. It’s a sweet gesture, really, but I sincerely doubt you’ve got anything we can use.” He coupled this with a sweeping gaze up and down her uniformed body, making sure to linger at her hips and chest. Rogers would make him pay for it later, but this was fucking insulting. 

To her credit, Fairway didn’t outwardly react. “Lockheed Martin aren’t involved in the modifications to this model. As for your concerns about capacity, the modifications include a double cockpit and a passenger hold for up to four people.”

Tony leaned over and picked up one of the photos of the jet, eyebrow raised. He flipped it over, making a show of examining the whole page, and then waved it in her general direction. “Four person hold?” He said with an arch of his eyebrow. “For who, Oompa Loompas? Darling, unless this jet can slice into the fourth dimension you are making promises you just cannot keep. Very naughty of you, I almost approve.”

Rogers coughed, and when Tony glanced over he was being glared at. 

“Personal space does become a concern when you’re at capacity,” said Fairhair mildly. “But the lack of weapons systems and the listed modifications to the engines do give him enough space to comfortably carry your team.”

Tony rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. “Well,” he said breezily, pushing his hands into his pockets and slouching with his best dishevelled charm. “I’m glad the talented sky jockeys with the DOD have put all their efforts into convincing pretty young women that they can build a bag of holding, but here in reality we have actual problems to be solving. Do be sure to let your ‘talented engineers’ know that once they hit post grad and manage to stop humping Gygax’s leg I have a great research program with ample funding for imaginative little girls and boys. Now if you’ll excuse me, while I’m very good, I  _ am _ contained by the space time continuum, so I’d like to go authorise manufacture on the quinjet so that we can actually get this show on the road sometime this century—“

“Sit down, Stark,” said Romanov in a bored tone, still examining the sheet in front of her. “You’re not even flight certified, let the people who will actually be piloting the damn thing get through the briefing, or I’ll tell your child minder that you were a very bad boy who doesn’t deserve an ice pop.”

“Guys, can we pretend to be a little professional?” said Rogers. “Natasha’s right, Tony, sit down. The quinjet’s a good thought, but it’s not feasible yet. At the very least this is a good stop gap, and honestly? We need the military backing.”

“Why, exactly?” asked Tony, leaning against the wall. 

“These games aren’t uncommon,” said Thor, the only other person outright ignoring the file in front of him. “But it does not affect us, Stark, we fly on our own wings. I think it would behoove us to be less... fractious.”

Romanov leaned over and flicked Barton’s ear. He reached up and turned his hearing aids back on. “Tony done with his shitfit?” He clarified with an easy grin.

Tony gave him a one finger salute, and Romanov ignored them both, tapping the file. “You're the next pilot in line,” she said brusquely. “Any concerns?”

“Yeah,” said Barton immediately, slouching in his chair. “Engine redundancies are good, love the updated safety features don’t get me wrong, but why are you hitting us with the non negotiable AI pilot shit? I realise I’m copilot only except in case of emergency, but in case of emergency I definitely don’t wanna be arguing with a Cortana who won’t shut off. And it’s us; in case of emergency is a fuckin’ Tuesday.”

“Non invasive AI,” said Babyborn — Faireborn, her name was definitely Faireborn then. “Background only, you won’t even know he’s there. He’ll only be in control in the event that whoever’s in the cockpit is physically unable.”

“But we can’t shut it off,” said Romanov mildly, expression unreadable. 

Faireborn was good, Tony would give her that, but she still twitched. “No,” she said. “That would defeat the point.”

“Right,” said Romanov, with her best, dimpled, polite smile. “Safety redundancy. I assume the firewalls are good?”

Faireborn actually smiled at that. “I assure you, there is nothing on the planet capable of hacking the AI in this jet.”

Aww. Tony was going to time how long it took him to break whatever version of Siri they’d stuffed into the nav systems, and then he was going to rub Faireborn’s nose in it. Maybe he’d let Jarvis send the report in. It was always a good day when he could remind the armed forces exactly what they were missing when they thought they’d found an adequate replacement for him. AI was his pet arena, he kept his ear to the ground, and Stark was still the name of the game. 

“Okay,” said Romanov demurely. “What’s our timeline?”

“It’s upstairs,” said Fury, standing up, and Hill moved at the same time, collecting the files from the table. “You’re cleared to fly it back to the tower today, since Stark has so generously built an appropriate hangar on premises.”

“Oh goody, the ugly step child gets the nursery I built for my beautiful first born,” said Tony in a droll tone, straightening from his spot against the wall. “Guess I’d better go ahead and open everything up, prep Bruce for the new addition to the family.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Rogers, standing and nodding to Hill, Fury, and Faireborn. “Thor, do you want to fly back alongside, make sure you don’t interfere with anything?”

“Certainly,” said Thor, standing and collecting Mjolnir from the floor next to his chair. The hammer always looked kind of incongruous when Thor was in his civvies; like he was just a dedicated fan with an especially detailed prop he’d picked up at a con. The attitude Thor oozed, however, was entirely space prince. Casual wear aside, he was alien in a way that made your hair stand on end. 

Barton on the other hand managed to make basically all of his clothes look as though he’d just rolled out of bed. Tony had seen the man in a tux and he’d just looked like a waiter at a Vegas wedding reception. A cheap one. Next to him, Romanov was a perky little flower. A perky little flower covered in knives. “Can’t wait to find out how he steers,” said Romanov with a charming smile at Faireborn. “See you boys at home.”

Civil to a fault, Rogers kept his thoughts to himself until they were both sitting in Tony’s car. The seatbelts clicked in place, and Tony flicked the ignition before he turned his head and slid his sunglasses on. “Okay Cap, give it to me.”

“Eyes on the road,” said Rogers, the enormous hypocrite. There was a very good reason Tony didn’t let him drive any of his cars after all. “I didn’t like it either, but you didn’t have to use misogyny to get a cheap shot at her.”

“You need to stay off the feminist forums, Rogers,” mused Tony, taking them up through the security barriers to rejoin civilisation. “Too many five dollar words and not enough real world applicability. The military has a very fixed view of the kind of person I am, it would be a shame to disillusion any of them.”

“It’s a jet, not a wedding ring. If we need to crash it, we’ll crash it,” said Rogers with a flicker of a smile that might not have even been there. And then, after a pause: “You’re going to build an off switch for the pilot AI, right?”

“It’ll be done before dinner, sweet cheeks,” said Tony. 

“Have you read bell hooks?” asked Rogers in a dry tone. “I think you should read bell hooks.”

—

Bruce wandered up to the hangar to join them when Romanov radioed that they were coming in. He was wearing loose sweat pants and crocs with one of the two shirts he owned, and he was eating a bowl of muesli with offensively cheap yoghurt he’d picked up from the store two blocks away. Sometimes Tony really couldn’t stand to look at him. “You realise it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, right?” said Tony, barely sparing a glance for the only man in the building who was on his level. 

“I thought time was an illusion,” said Bruce mildly, eating another spoonful of muesli. “I like cereal in the afternoon. How was the military industrial complex today?”

“Only one uniform, and she was a young lady who even smiled,” said Tony, shaking his head slowly as he opened the external iris on the hangar. It slid open silently like the piece of art that he’d designed it as. Tony spared a moment to mourn what could have been. “Toothless. Even you could have handled it.”

Bruce had an official exemption from attending any briefings with members of the US Army. Tony had tried to apply for the same, but apparently describing the entire department of defence as a “jilted lover” didn’t bear the same weight as the likelihood of a Hulk incident on government property. 

Bruce hummed, shaking his head as he swallowed, watching the iris spiral open. “You a Stargate fan then?”

Tony grinned, adjusting minor environmental controls. “Hold your tongue, Doctor Banner, this was just the most economical design.”

“Oh yeah. Bet O’Neill was a big inspiration for you.”

“Please, I obviously only watched it for Carter.”

“Was that the one with the Death Star or the Klingons?” asked Rogers, leaning against the control panel.

“You’re trying to aggravate me and it’s not going to work,” Tony informed him, but Rogers’ guileless grin was the only response, and they all refocused their attention on the jet that was approaching. 

“Tony,” said Bruce after a moment, setting his bowl down. “You haven’t got a runway.”

“Quinjet design is based on directional repulsor technology,” said Tony smugly. “It doesn’t need one, but Fury seemed very confident that this hangar would be fine for our new military toy as well.”

“Uh-huh,” said Bruce, glancing speculatively at the door behind them. 

“Relax,” said Rogers, shaking his head. “Did you actually read the file Tony, or did you just look at the pictures? One of the modifications their team made was similar. The jargon went over my head, but it’s designed to set down and take off with no run up or down. Perfect for stealth intervention if we need it to be.”

“Fighter jets are still totally inappropriate for our type of team,” said Tony irritably. “They know that, they’re trying to make us look like idiots.”

“Yeah,” said Rogers blandly. “They’re trying to aggravate us and it’s not going to work. Incoming.”

Thor hit the deck first, crackling with lightning as he landed with the ease of practice. Even without the cape he managed to look magnificent, and he spun Mjolnir up onto his shoulder, grinning broadly as he strode up to join them at the control desk where they waited for Romanov and Barton to make their landing. “Wonderful weather,” he commented, voice almost booming with good cheer. “The vehicle is quiet, compared to SHIELD’s fare.”

It was, actually, Tony realised as Romanov slowed for her approach, easing it into the hangar with eerie control he’d never seen on a standard Raptor. Part of him was regretting not paying closer attention to the modifications, but the larger, cynical part of him knew damn well nothing on the paperwork they’d been given would actually be true. He’d know what was up once he got into the internals, anyway. Bruce’s eyebrow was raised, cereal bowl back in his hands, and Rogers was watching the jet land with careful disinterest. 

The curiously quiet engines cut, and the F-22 settled in the middle of the hangar, neatly parked on top of the revolving mechanism designed to turn his quinjet for launch. Romanov was a competent pilot, but nobody was that good on the first go of an experimental military jet. One that apparently could cut off and land more smoothly than anything in production Tony knew about. What the hell?

The gears in Tony’s analytical mind started to pick up, but he was distracted from his first pass over the vehicle by the cockpit sliding open. Barton didn’t even wait for Jarvis’ intuitive step ladder system to come out of the floor, scrambling out of the copilot seating and darting across the blue wing of the jet to jump down at the end, hitting the ground with a thump that made Tony’s own ankles twinge in sympathy. 

“Oh that is fucking cursed,” said Barton immediately, pacing back to stare at the jet with narrowed eyes. “That is one hundred percent goddamn uncanny, and I don't like it.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” called Romanov laconically, peering over the side of the cockpit and emerging with more dignity, stepping out onto the steps provided by Tony’s brilliant hangar system. “You were given the same rundown on the intuitive AI that I was. It’s very good, that’s all.”

The cockpit slid closed without anything from Barton or Romanov, and she glanced over her shoulder with an impressed lift to her eyebrows. Barton was already shaking his head as she approached. “No. No fucking way,” he said firmly, glaring at the jet. “Intuitive my ass, that thing is fucking psychic, there’s magic bullshit jumbled up in this, mark my fucking words, we should be calling Strange.”

“Predictive AI isn’t new tech,” said Romanov, clapping Barton on the shoulder. “We logged the flight path and didn’t make any deviations. Perfect responsiveness on everything, I wish everything I flew reacted like it.” She turned to fall in line with the rest of them, examining the jet. 

It was very blue, with red and white trim around the wings, and there was looping white script along the curve of the cockpit. Typical airforce sentimentality towards a favoured plane. Tony appreciated that. He grinned, softening a little despite himself, and started to pace around as he took it in. It wasn’t a perfect match for an ordinary F-22; there were cosmetic differences, the cockpit was wrong, it was bigger, and the back was significantly bulkier. Probably that miraculous passenger hold Faireborn had insisted was there. 

“Well,” said Tony, grin widening as he reached up to pat the nosecone. “I mean, we’re clearly going to have to do something about the colour scheme, can’t have us riding around in the Captain America jet, that’ll give people totally the wrong idea.” His hand connected with the metal and static shot through him, making him jerk back with a muffled curse, shaking his hand out. 

There was laughter in Romanov’s tone, the awful woman. “You should have read the file, Tony,” she said, grinning widely at him. “Someone is clearly worried about giving you ideas, literally everything is proprietary, down to the paint and placement of it.”

“What?” said Tony, giving her a sceptical look, before glancing back to the jet. “What do you mean ‘everything’ — this isn’t a goddamn, fucking, corporate rebrand micromanaging a logo for chrissakes.”

“Everything,” said Romanov again. “There wasn’t a single port or connector in that cockpit that I recognised. Doesn’t even have an aux cord,” she added, making Bruce snort. 

Tony scowled. “And how the hell am I supposed to force updates or do maintenance?” 

“You’re not,” said Romanov with a shrug. “Should’ve read the file in the briefing so you could yell at Faireborn more while we were there — when it needs maintenance we’re to notify Faireborn who’ll show up with the specialist team to take care of it.”

Tony stared at her, dumbfounded. “Absolutely not — that is fucking ridiculous,” he said sharply. “We, we are standing in a building that contains the best fucking mechanical engineers in the entire country and you’re telling me that we’re supposed to hang around waiting for  _ subcontractors _ if something goes wrong? Fury is aware our problems usually don’t wait for bureaucracy, right? Wow, I am one hundred percent ignoring that. That is the stupidest thing I have heard in years, Christ.”

“Might be best to play ball at first,” said Rogers, sighing. “Prove it’s not working their way.”

“And if that gets people killed?” said Tony archly, looking him dead in the eye. 

“Then we ignore everything and do it our way,” said Rogers, shrugging. “They’ve tried to slow us down before and it hasn’t worked, this isn’t going to either.”

“Fine,” snapped Tony, waving his hand at them. “Whatever. This is me playing nice. Now go away so I can work on my nefarious schemes with our delightfully inadequate guest.”

“If it’s all proprietary connections how are you planning on getting in to install to off switch?” asked Rogers. 

“Everything has something wireless these days,” said Tony, rolling his eyes. “I can piggyback through Jarvis, and if push comes to shove it is amazing what you can do with a pair of pliers and a multi tool. Either way, inferior military AI meet Big Brother and quiver in fear.”

“Have fun,” said Rogers, nodding. 

“Before dinner, like I promised,” said Tony, mounting the steps. 

The others filed out, Bruce leaving behind his empty cereal bowl (easily his worst habit). Tony climbed up towards the cockpit, but Barton’s booted footsteps were approaching him instead of leaving the hangar. 

“What?” said Tony, glancing down at him with one hand on the cockpit. 

Barton tapped his ear, eyes clinical as he scanned the jet. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck is up with intuitive AI or proprietary systems or what the fuck ever, but something with this thing is futzing with my hearing aids and the feedback isn’t doing me any favours. If you’re gonna be in the systems anyway—“

“Yeah sure,” said Tony, nodding. “They’re Bluetooth, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Barton, nodding back, and he turned to leave, shooting a glance back over his shoulder at the jet as he left. 

Tony bounced his eyebrows and turned back to the cockpit, tracing the smooth, golden glass with his fingertips. The thick, loopy script along the rim of the cockpit was right there, and he tilted his head to read it. “Thundercracker,” he said slowly. “Flyboys always give such stupid fucking names, don’t they babe? Okay, let's get to work.”


	2. A Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony sulks, and Avengers assemble.

It was three am by the time Tony gave up. Bruce had wandered in around nine and slid a pizza box up onto the wing next to the cockpit, and Tony reached for it now, tearing a slice of cold pepperoni and eating it as he stared mutinously at the inside of the cockpit in front of him. He’d spent the first forty five minutes getting into the damn thing, but that felt like the only progress he’d actually made since he’d traded off for custody from Romanov and Barton. 

He swallowed mechanically, still staring, furrow deep in his brows. “I am a patient and attentive lover,” he informed the dark rank of dials and displays. “But you are testing even me, sweetheart. Tell me how to treat you right and I can rock your world, baby, but you gotta let me in first.”

There was no response. After the night he’d had, Tony wasn’t expecting one. He sighed and leaned back from the cockpit, dragging the pizza box into his lap. God, it was fucking criminal what his teammates ordered when he wasn’t around to supervise; it wasn’t that difficult to get good pizza in New York for chrissakes.

He glanced at the time on his phone and called Rhodey. 

“...It is a true testament to our friendship that I’m even answering this phone call, Tones,” was the muffled greeting he got after three rings. 

“Come get breakfast with me,” said Tony instead. “You use your suit and you can be here in time for Sparrow’s to open up.”

“Or I could go to sleep and you could call me at a sane hour?”

 _“Or_ you could have fresh bagels the same hour the fish markets start trading.”

“...Fuck it. Leave the lights on for me, baby.”

Tony laughed even as Rhodey hung up, and he collected the pizza box before jumping off the wing of the plane. The glass of the cockpit slid back into place with a soft _snickt_ noise that made Tony glare at it. “Oh, _now_ you respond,” he said tartly, folding the cardboard together and tucking it under his arm. “Bitchy.”

The jet didn’t respond, sitting there quietly. Tony flipped it off as he walked out with the remains of his dinner. War Machine’s HUD popped messages up in front of your face if you used the right line, and he took full advantage of it, clogging Rhodey’s inbox with his complaints about the jet and the military in general. 

By the time he’d showered and changed into clothes more appropriate for wandering Manhattan at five o’clock in the morning Rhodey was touching down on the station upstairs. Tony made his way up, JARVIS echoing through the open doors between them as he alerted Tony and greeted Rhodey simultaneously. 

“Honeybunches, soothe my soul,” he said, gesturing expansively as Rhodey came in, his off duty day wear wrinkled from being stuck in War Machine for an hour. 

Rhodey knew better than to hug him. “Please don’t tell me your sleep schedule has actually gotten so bad that our best and brightest can run circles around you,” he said, grinning widely. “Cause I got good odds in our books, Tones, I can’t take another hit on you.”

Tony grinned at him indulgently and gave him the finger. _“Please,_ who do you think you’re talking to?”

“The life model decoy of Tony Stark, pain in my ass?” asked Rhodey, strolling past him towards the elevators down. “You promised me fresh bagels, jackass, get your card out and be ready to open a tab ‘cause I’m gonna drink a whole _gallon_ of coffee on your dime.” 

“Only the finest roast for my sugar, sugar,” drawled Tony, following him down to the bottom of his building. 

The sun was barely cresting behind the skyscrapers as they made it out into the brisk dawn air, and Tony wrinkled his nose, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Did he remember his sunglasses? He was gonna want them in about twenty minutes, hell, he kind of wanted them now. 

Rhodey laughed as they walked out to the already teeming street; even at five am you had to wake up earlier than this to get the drop on his neighbours. “Manhattan, never change,” he said, jerking his thumb at the luxury piece of crap parked right in front of Stark tower. “Think they missed the sign?”

Tony had paid the local council a pretty goddamn penny to have the loading bay in front of Stark tower made into a private parking space, and then he’d paid them another pretty penny to have “RESERVED FOR TONY STARK” painted in the same way the loading bays were marked out. 

Tony looked down his nose at it and snorted, grinning at Rhodey. “Paint job like that I’d say they're probably _still_ too drunk to read it,” he said, shaking his head slowly before he rapped his knuckles on the hood. “Yellow’s the right direction but we’re looking more for a golden _gleam,_ not a golden stream. _And_ it’s a lambo—god, I always feel bad when I see them, they’re such nice pieces of engineering under the hood, but they’re butt fuckin’ ugly.”

“More money than taste, you’d get right along,” joked Rhodey, stepping around the car and heading across the street. 

“Asshole shelled out for a custom and _still_ managed to fuck it up this bad?” called Tony, giving the car one last look before following Rhodey across the street. “Please, I’d be arrested for felony assault within an hour.”

Sparrow’s wasn’t quite bustling yet in the pre-office workday peak, but they were doing a brisk trade for the early birds. Tony acquired a promise of recurring rounds of good black coffee while Rhodey attempted to bankrupt him in their pastry case and bagel menu. They secured a table by a window, watching the sun rise at an angle that probably wouldn’t hurt too bad, and Tony draped his jacket over one of the spare seats, propping his feet up on the other. “I mean it’s a freaking twenty-two,” he complained at Rhodey for what felt like the fiftieth time. “Even the best coding is limited by its hardware specs and those things barely have enough room for the systems they’ve already got running much less a brand new and allegedly Stark-proof AI.”

Rhodey shrugged, already working his way through a chocolate croissant like the heathen he was. Tony couldn’t take him fucking anywhere, though he should _definitely_ take him back to France one time just to make him ask for one in a cafe. “Whatever it is if it’s military it’ll use the same contractors we use for our firewalls. Once you figure out your way around it you’ll be in in under ten minutes.”

Well, a few hours, because while Merv couldn’t _stop_ Tony from knocking his firewalls down, he could make it tedious and require stupid amounts of bandwidth. Ten minutes if he put _everything_ in it, and a few hours if he didn’t want to shut the whole building down because he was too impatient about things that were easy. Merv annoyed Tony and the feeling was mutual—anyone with that mediocre level of skill should’ve been doing other things than designing firewalls for government contracts, but he _kept getting them._ One day Tony was gonna just buy his company out of spite. 

“I bet it’s a hardware thing,” said Tony, irritated and scrunching up a napkin in one hand, ignoring his everything bagel that he’d taken half a bite of on the plate in front of him. “Just, they’ve perfected a tiny little surge protector patented by some nineteen year old who has the time to spend on one thing for years and once I find it everything’ll unravel in my hands like usual.”

“And you’ll have a shiny new scholarship student ready to sign X on the dotted line and give his soul to Stark Industries once he graduates,” said Rhodey, leaning back in his chair and sipping his nine dollar coffee like it was the shit he’d find in a jug in his office. “Who sold it to you anyway? They weren’t air force, I’m supposed to oversee SHIELD contracts now I’m not babysitting your ass.”

“Some pressed uniform schmuck called Faireborn,” groused Tony, savouring the coffee on his tongue before swallowing. “No sense of humour.”

Rhodey whistled. “I’ll bet. Senior or junior?”

Tony’s brain screeched to a halt as he thought over what Faireborn had looked like—old enough to have kids? Sure. Old enough to have a kid in the military of a rank that Rhodey’d know about? Fuck, Pepper was techincally that age, not that he’d tell her to her face, she sure as shit didn’t look it at a glance, he’d always been _crap_ at age guessing, he’d just say ‘twenty four’ no matter what she looked like and nine times out of ten it got him laid so he just kept doing it. 

“She had that weird brown hair that’s a little red—” he started, and Rhodey nodded. 

“Faireborn the daughter,” he said, frowning. “Huh.”

“Think she could probably stand to get a personality to go with the uniform,” said Tony, drinking more of his coffee. “You know her?”

“Know _of_ her,” said Rhodey. “She’s third gen, I think. Daddy’s a general, granddad was too. Navy family.”

“The hell is the navy doing with experimental jets?” said Tony, prodding his bagel across the table for Rhodey to eat. 

“Oh she’s not navy,” said Rhodey, pulling Tony’s bagel over the rest of the way. “She’s Space Force.”

Tony paused, coffee cup barely touching his lips before he put it back on the table. “I’m sorry,” he said, boardroom conversational. “Did you say _Space Force?”_

“Yup,” said Rhodey, popping the ‘p’. “Doesn’t shock me she’s involved, she’s been doing interbranch politics since she got out of basic pretty much, and SHIELD’s been working closely with them since they formed.”

Since the US Army didn’t want to admit an agency external to their own government had gotten the drop of them with fucking aliens and had decided that if space was out there they needed a goddamn military branch just for them, he meant. “So I’ve got a jet in my tower that’s probably been pilfered from funding meant for _NASA,”_ said Tony flatly, jabbing a stirring stick at Rhodey. “NASA doesn’t build _fancy,_ Rhodes, they build _simple,_ and to _last.”_

Rhodey shrugged. “And the US military expects results from all its branches, especially the new ones that haven’t earned their keep yet,” he said. “Faireborn has a rep from her name, but Space Force? Coast Guard pettys have more pull than her right now, she’s working from scratch and she’s got all sorts of people breathing down her neck who I can tell you straight have even less of a moral compass than Nick Fury.”

“What’d she do, spill coffee on a senator?” asked Tony, draining his coffee cup.

“Oh way worse,” said Rhodey, grinning. “She volunteered.”

Tony snorted. “How have we never met her, though?” he wondered out loud, narrowing his eyes at the bagel disappearing into Rhodey’s mouth. “We’ve met the Space Force rep who works with SHIELD on Thor’s operating when we’re needed stateside.”

It hadn’t gone great, but no one had died or gotten sued, which he was counting as a win—it was the bare minimum Pepper asked for whenever he had to meet someone new, and consequently the only bar he ever aimed to clear under those circumstances was “no one dying”. Tony knew his limits. 

“Outside your Asgardian royal the Avengers haven’t handled alien contact on US soil since formation,” said Rhodey, popping the last piece of Tony’s bagel in his mouth. “And since you’re officially affiliated with SHIELD and not the military all of your alien-related contact goes through them. Then SHIELD works with Space Force from there. Also, Faireborn’s still got _rank,_ she’s not up at the family standard yet, but most of her shit would definitely be classified. Goes double if she’s managing a research team.”

“You surely outrank her and your classification is good,” argued Tony, pushing aside his coffee cup and leaning in with both his elbows on the table. 

“Yeah, and I’m Air Force and have never met her,” said Rhodey, leaning in back at him with his eyes wide and sarcastic. “Gossip isn’t good for the soul, Tony. Focus on the jet first, you won’t know what she’s up to until you know what she’s up to.”

Tony scowled at him and pulled out his phone, already hitting his home screen shortcut to speed dial Pepper. 

She answered on the fourth ring. “What did I tell you about phone sex?” she said by way of greeting. 

Tony glanced around the cafe. “Not in public, not on speaker, not with Rhodey?” he hazarded. 

“Wait, Rhodey’s there? I thought I had custody this week,” said Pepper, but she didn’t sound annoyed so Tony carried on. 

“I promise I won’t call you for phone sex with Rhodey in the room,” said Tony very sincerely, ignoring the way Rhodey’s eyebrows had shot up and he was counting on his fingers across the table from him. Trying to ignore it. He pulled the phone away from his mouth and covered it, hissing quietly. “That was _one time—_ no the sexting doesn’t _count—”_

“Tony?” said Pepper, and he uncovered the phone, raising it to his mouth again. “Tony, why are you calling me at two thirty in the morning on a work night? Day?”

“I need to know if you’ve heard anything about a ‘Marissa Faireborn’,” said Tony. 

“...I don’t know who that is,” said Pepper eventually, a slight, tired whine entering her tone, and she still wasn’t snappy _or_ passive aggressive. “Tony please, I have to be awake again in about four hours and I just got back from this _awful_ dinner for a contract bid—”

“Not awful enough to go home and leave the vodka behind?” said Tony, grinning widely. 

There was the distinctive thud of Pepper kicking off one of her heels and it hitting the floor next to the couch in the living room. The master bedroom had a rug. “I hate you,” Pepper informed him. “Who is Marissa Faireborn?”

“She’s a—” Tony glanced at Rhodey, eyebrows wiggling. 

“Captain,” said Rhodey, sipping his coffee. 

“—Captain in the _Space Force,”_ Tony finished, putting extra snotty sarcasm on the institution. 

Pepper sighed. “Tony, we have no military contacts anymore, remember? They hate us and won’t tell us anything. Except for Rhodey.”

Rhodey toasted the phone with his mug. Tony flipped him off. “Rhodey’s being unhelpful.”

“So ask JARVIS,” grumbled Pepper. “I need to sleep.”

“Pep—” she hung up on him before he could finish. Tony scowled. He tapped twice on his phone screen to bring up his remote commands for JARVIS, and two texts from Pepper bannered at the top of his screen. 

Pep: pls stop makin archenememeys with random generals ):  
Pep: ):

Tony snorted. Pepper was a delight when she was half-drunk. Well—she was always a delight. 

His phone screen went black in his hands, a red pulsing icon appearing in the middle and Tony swore, jerking to his feet and making the chairs scatter with a clatter. 

“What is it?” said Rhodey, looking up from his coffee. 

“You tagging along?” asked Tony.

He turned his phone around as it announced _“Avengers Assemble”_ at them. Rhodey nodded and drained his coffee, scrambling to follow Tony out of the cafe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Thundercracker will be the first Cybertronian Avenger, Sunstreaker will probably be the first Cybertronian arrested for vehicular homicide. Also just as note of clarification if you're wondering about some of my choices; while this is based primarily on TF IDW2005 and MCU Avengers, I'm also pulling some stuff from TF G1 and Marvel 616, and then fucking with/extrapolating on all of the above. :)


	3. Boyfriends and Busters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing the real star of the show, our leading lady: Buster!

“So,” said Cap eventually as they stood and decompressed in the middle of the hangar. “Debrief?”

Cliff jammed a finger at the jet. “I _told_ you it’s cursed.”

“It’s not _cursed,”_ snapped Tony, waving a detached Iron Man glove at him. “Just because I haven’t figured out the AI does not make it cursed!”

“What do you mean you haven’t figured out the AI, you were up here all night!” said Clint, staring at him. 

“Hawkeye,” said Steve, peeling his hood away from his face and shaking out his sweaty hair. Gross. “These things take time, and you know the military’s been wanting to curveball us for a while now.”

“The jet performed fine,” said Natasha, rolling her eyes at Clint. “And Tony got in far enough to fix the bluetooth interference on your hearing aids, so stop bitching and let him work.”

“If I were _working_ I wouldn’t be fucking about with a sloppy second F-22,” Tony informed her before what she’d said caught up with him. “I would be—wait, the bluetooth thing isn’t happening anymore?”

“Yeah,” said Clint, tapping his ear. “Did you _not_ mean to do that?”

“No I totally did,” said Tony, frowning. “But I didn’t even manage to get access to an interface I could use of any kind, fuck I couldn’t even get behind a panel and that’s _hardware._ What, did you ask it to stop or something?”

Natasha frowned, looking up at the jet she was standing closest to. 

Steve glanced between them. “Is this a huge leap?” he asked, glancing at Tony and Natasha. “I mean, every time I browse the internet people are complaining about devices in their home listening to conversations and computers tracking what they browse and that’s just _advertising._ Is it really too much to assume an intuitive military AI might adjust a frequency to not interfere with a passenger’s adaptive device?”

“Pilot,” corrected Clint, crossing his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t make it less creepy or invasive, Cap.” 

Tony gnashed his teeth like a cartoon villain. “There’s a lot of factors to consider in that, anyway,” he said slowly, aware it sounded like the words were being pulled out of his throat by the root. 

Natasha snorted, still not looking away from the jet. “So no idea, huh?” she said, reaching up and tracing a bare hand on the jet’s plating. “Hmm. Adaptive nav system’s better than any military standard jet I’ve flown and I don’t remember that in the briefing. We knew they were fudging certain details, would it be ‘too much’ of a reach to assume they were lying about the non-invasity of the piloting AI?”

Tony waved a hand. “Look the thing about AI, and I mean actual, genuine, artificial _intelligence,_ not neural networks weaved together with updating algorithms, is that it is literally always easier to just run a program to collect information and have a person on the other end sorting it out.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “So what, it’s more believable to you that the jet’s a secret surveillance tool than the military being as good as you are?”

Tony snorted. “Yes, I know, I’m not as smart as I think I am and my ego’s unbelievable but seriously—Jarvis exists because I am pigheaded and rich and one person who is famously capricious. If I _want_ to spend seven years of my life devoted to a personal project that has absolutely no commercial applicability and requires pretty much constant babysitting for the better part of two decades I’m able to. The military has budgets, deadlines, committees, and, I’m sorry, what was that? Oh yeah, access to the world’s largest and most thorough surveillance network.”

Natasha looked superbly smug about something, and Tony couldn’t _wait_ to find out just what she was thinking, but Jarvis’s alert sounded from the jaw speaker in the Iron Man armour. 

“My apologies Mr Stark, but Captain Faireborn’s team is here.”

Tony’s expression froze halfway across his face and he redirected his ire towards his own suit of armour. _“Why?”_

Natasha snorted. “To do the routine maintenance and post mission check in while we debrief with SHIELD,” she said archly. “What, your lawyers never lecture you about reading documentation?”

“Yes, they do,” called Pepper across the room as her heels clicked behind the silent sliding doors. “Tony, Jarvis has been trying to get your attention since you landed—”

“He has it!” snapped Tony, gesturing at the speaker by his neck. “We’re not—”

“Agents Sitwell and Jasper are in the private lobby for official debriefing,” said Jarvis over his retort, and Tony tilted his head towards the ceiling and started counting. 

He got distracted before he made it to ‘ten’, but it was worth a shot. 

Cap slapped him on the shoulder as he walked past towards the door. “Come on, Tony. The jet performed fine, we can play nice for now,” he reminded him, blue eyes steady. 

The others loosely followed Cap, Bruce dead on his feet and yawning, Nat ignoring him, though Clint nodded at him with a suspicious look over his shoulder at the jet. Pepper raised an eyebrow at him as he was left the last one standing, one hand propped on her hip. 

“They want to make you eat crow,” she said softly, giving him a small, rueful smile. “I get the same snubs and crap from contractors and at conventions, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean I want them doing it here,” complained Tony, just as quiet, but he disengaged the armor, stepping free of the confines and letting Jarvis’s intuitive system retrieve the pieces to take back down to his personal workshop for _his_ maintenance. 

He looped an arm through Pepper’s elbow and strolled out into the hall in his undersuit. He might not be as confident as Natasha in her shapely leather and kevlar, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t _slinkier_ than her.

Faireborn’s team were waiting in the hall, a few guys in work coveralls who looked annoyed, one in uniform with the military boredom gaze whose eyes kept flicking to the single visible camera in the hall, and Faireborn herself, clearly pulled away from weekend plans in jeans, a t-shirt with rolled sleeves, and aviators perched in her military unstandard ponytail. 

Tony’s eyes however, were drawn to what was on the end of the leash she was holding, and he paused, even as Pepper moved to walk them past her. 

“Why have you got a dog?” he asked. He wasn’t a hundred percent certain it _was_ a dog from the way its face was scrunched up, but it had a wagging tail and short enough fur so it was probably a dog. 

“She’s my boyfriend’s,” said Faireborn blandly. “I’m pet sitting. Let’s go, gentlemen.”

The team picked up and followed her as she led them into the hangar, dog trotting by her heels, and Tony watched them go, bemused. The door slid shut behind them, and he turned his head back to face Pepper. “That dog better not shit in there,” he said, pointing at the door. 

“Let’s _go,_ gentleman,” said Pepper wryly, tugging him along the hall. 

Sitwell and Jasper were in their usual form, grilling them over every single field decision they’d made until Steve lost his patience and turned things over to Thor’s discretion. Tony escaped at the sound of Mjolnir hitting the floor too close to Jasper’s foot and the subsequent yelp. His undersuit was sticking to his skin with sweat, and he wanted to review the tapes from the hangar. 

One shower and a refreshing smoothie later and Tony nestled his tablet in his elbow, tapping through to his direct tower interface menu. “Okay Jarvis, show me what witchcraft they’re doing to the damn jet,” he said loudly. 

The tablet did nothing. 

“Jarvis,” said Tony, frowning slightly and raising his hand to click his fingers at the nearest sensor. 

“My apologies. Yes, Mr Stark?”

“Jarv, I don’t pay you in premium server real estate to ignore me,” said Tony, tapping through the tablet interface manually to find the security systems for the section dedicated to the team floors. “I need eyes in the Avenger’s hangar, show me what Faireborn and her boytoys are doing.”

The options for all the audio-visual systems inside the hangar were grayed out and unresponsive, and Tony frowned, tapping the hall camera instead. It gave him a feed of an empty hall and a closed door. 

“I’m afraid my systems inside the hangar are unresponsive, Mr Stark,” said Jarvis, apologetic. 

“What do you mean ‘unresponsive’?” said Tony, frowning and bringing up the actual network to check the relays. All of the ones inside the hangar were registering as ‘off’, and weren’t responding to network pings. 

“They are no longer connected to the tower network, Mr Stark,” said Jarvis as though he couldn’t see that for himself. “Which is why I could only contact you through the Iron Man uplink. Miss Potts indicated that she’d convey this to you.”

Tony was already walking back towards the hangar, scowling deep in the lines of his face. “Well she _didn’t._ Are they still in there?”

“There are no indications that they have left,” said Jarvis, and oh _boy_ wasn’t that an illuminating evasion. 

Tony tucked the tablet under one arm and punched the code in for the door with aggressive jabs, storming in to see what the hell was happening. _God_ he hoped one of them was stupid enough to try and tell him to leave, which of these _jackasses_ thought they could keep him out of anything happening in his own damn _building—_

“What did you do to my _cameras?”_ he snarled, coming to a halt in front of Faireborn and glaring up at her. 

She turned her head to look at him where she was leaning against the control podium, giving him a nonplussed look. “Nothing?” she said, sounding somewhat suspicious. “If you want to watch, Mr Stark, you are allowed. It’s your building after all.”

Tony eyed her with equal suspicion, whipping out his tablet again and making a beeline for one of the visible cameras to take a look at it. He made very certain to pick one that was in line of sight with the crew working on the cursed jet. 

The tech team seemed mostly like they were killing time while a large pump hooked up to the fueling section worked silently. It looked like any kind of industrial pump Tony had ever seen—metal box, fat tube, screw in nozzle to prevent air or impurities from getting in or out. Pumping appeared to be _all_ they were doing, in fact. 

As he shifted to the next visible camera closer to the jet, Tony realised he could hear the metallic thud of something soft and padded hitting metal. He looked up from the network diagnostic he was running on his tablet, and frowned at the sight of Faireborn’s damn dog perched on the jet’s wing. It was lying along the wing with its head poking off, ears perked up as it panted at one of the techs, its tail thumping up and down repeatedly. 

The tech glanced at him, seemingly feeling Tony’s eyes on the back of his head, and Tony was momentarily struck. He looked… Unreal. Not in an uncanny or awful kind of way, but in a ‘short-lived underwear modelling contract leading to an even shorter acting career’ kind of way. His face was too defined for him _not_ to be wearing makeup and the fact that he was wearing makeup while on call for military hardware maintenance meant that military hardware maintenance probably _hadn’t_ been his first career choice. 

He was frowning now, steely-eyed, George Clooney concern, and Tony swallowed a hysterical laugh and pointed at the dog. “So what, you the boyfriend?” he said with a forced casualness, walking over to him. 

“Yeah,” said the tech, taking his arm down from the wing where he’d been leaning on it and turning to face Tony. He didn’t offer a hand to shake, which was both good, and telling. Fuck, he probably shouldn’t have been such a dick to Faireborn initially. “Josh Boyfriend. Nice to meet you.”

Wait, _what?_

“Josh Boyfriend,” repeated Tony, feeling a grin spread across his face despite himself. “Boyfriend’s an uh, interesting name. European?”

“It’s a _family_ name,” said Josh, looking at him like somehow this statement showed that Tony was the idiot. 

God, Pepper was going to _die_ when he told her about this. He schooled his expression to his most serious party poker face and nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, makes sense,” he said casually. “Can I ask what breed your dog is? He’s got a unique face, made me curious.”

Josh’s apparent dislike of Tony briefly warred over his face with the doting pet owner's urge to gush about his dog, and predictably, the dog won. “She’s a _girl,”_ he corrected Tony, his posture loosening up a bit. “And she’s a rescue. A puggle. Her name’s Buster.”

“She’s very cute,” said Tony diplomatically, looking at the squashed-up puggish face that didn’t really resemble a pug at all and also didn’t mesh well with whatever the other half of a ‘puggle’ mix was. “Nice of Faireborn to look after her. You two must have been working together for a while?”

“Not really,” said Josh, looking up at Buster and smiling like he was in a toothpaste commercial. “She’s been pretty trustworthy so far though.”

Love me, love my dog. “Ah, got yanked recently for the ‘Thundercracker’ project, huh?” said Tony, aiming for commiseration over bad assignments. 

“Yeah,” said Josh, turning his attention back to Tony as Buster gave a slight ‘wuff’. Odd, he hadn’t patted her or rubbed her ears or anything. Wanted to stay professional in front of the Captain? “I’m—he’s a great jet. Does good work, you know.”

“She,” corrected Tony, grinning at him. “Haven’t been with the flyboys long, huh? Jets and planes are all ladies, you know, like ships.”

Josh stopped smiling and glared at him suspiciously. “Thundercracker’s not,” he said, suddenly hostile. 

Tony bit his tongue before he could argue the point. It wouldn’t help things, no matter how much he was right. 

“Everything okay?” asked Faireborn casually from _right_ behind him, almost making Tony jump out of his damn skin. 

“Yeah,” he said breezily, not giving a chance for Josh to answer. “Just making a nuisance of myself. None of my systems in the hangar are connecting to the rest of the tower network, starting from right around when your team arrived. Do you know if any of your equipment could be interfering with that, maybe?”

Deliberately, even, he didn’t add. 

Faireborn had an actual facial expression at that and raised an eyebrow, shifting her weight as she looked at Josh. “It shouldn’t be,” she said, shaking her head. “But I’ll admit, that’s not my department. Josh? This is your rodeo.”

“No, wow,” said Josh in the _fakest_ tone of surprise Tony had heard since Steve had last been accused of cheating at cards. His facial expression wasn’t much better, wide eyed innocence of a six year old girl. “That’s really weird.”

Faireborn looked like part of her soul had actually died at that and she rubbed her temple with one hand, grimacing at Tony. “We’ll do some troubleshooting to make sure it’s not our end,” she said, words clipped. “Sorry for the bother, Mr Stark.”

“Yeah,” said Josh casually, hands tucked into his pockets. “Sorry for the bother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a friend in software who I ask to check if my technobabble is coherent and they told me that this chapter's was "actually good!" so I'll be riding that high all week thanks \o/


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony joins Clint's side.

A soft beeping noise sounded next to his head and Tony woke up with the immediacy, if not the ease, of practice. 

“Hit me,” he said, climbing to his feet and tapping the band on his wrist, padding across the room on socked feet without waiting for a response. 

“The cameras in the hangar have been taken offline again,” said Jarvis at his soft, nighttime volume. 

“First time since Faireborn’s team restored access this afternoon?” checked Tony, calling his emergency elevator and taking the most immediate shortcut to the hangar he had access to. It spun up and arrived silently, faster than any commercial elevator regulations could allow. 

“Yes, Mr Stark,” said Jarvis, halfway to sounding actually offended as the doors slid shut again and the pit of Tony’s stomach lurched with the unannounced movement. 

“Just checkin’, J, love your work,” said Tony absentmindedly, patting the wall next to his head before tapping the touch screen in the door and bringing up his interface with the tower’s security network. 

It was  _ exactly _ the same as what had happened that afternoon. 

“Gotcha,” muttered Tony, dismissing the interface and knocking his wristband against the wall as the elevator halted and the door slid open. He squared his shoulders and stepped out into the hangar, clapping to bring on his lights, and what he saw made him halt in his tracks. 

There was a second jet parked next to Thundercracker. 

The iris of the hangar bay was still shut, the hangar logs had not showed it opening since they’d returned, there had been  _ no _ military air traffic around the tower that evening, there hadn’t even been the  _ sound _ of jet engines, but there was another goddamn jet sitting next to Thundercracker. Where there was supposed to be  _ one _ F-22 there were  _ two. _ The second was nigh identical to their jet as well; if you swapped the dark purple paint for the navy blue Tony wouldn’t have been able to tell you which was the original. 

“What the fuck,” said Tony, staring at the second jet, raising the wristband to his mouth. “Jarvis, double check air traffic around Stark tower for the evening and see if anyone’s tampered with external entry logs for the hangar.”

“Hangar bay doors have not been used since the return of the Avengers at one o’clock this afternoon,” said Jarvis clearly. “Traffic records in the airspace over Manhattan for the evening period are—”

Jarvis kept talking as Tony stared at the purple F-22, willing it to explain its presence. “Thanks, J,” he said glumly as Jarvis finished speaking with no more illuminating information than he’d started with. “What the fuck?” he said, scrubbing at his face. 

There was a strange sound, like an analog television being switched off as he rubbed at his eyes, and when Tony looked up the purple jet had disappeared without a trace. 

Tony froze, staring at the space where an entire purple fighter jet had just been sitting. “Jarvis!” he yelled. 

“The hangar has been reconnected to the tower network,” said Jarvis from the overhead speaker, making Tony jump and swear. “All systems and cameras functioning normally.”

“Where is it?” snapped Tony, striding over to the control desk. “Where did it go?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Stark?” said Jarvis as Tony jabbed at the desk until he had every system in the hangar in front of him, and he started scrolling through every piece of information, looking for any scrap of an explanation that he could find. 

“The second jet, Jarvis! It was  _ right there, _ where the fuck did it go!”

“The only jet to enter the Tower today is the F-22 tagged as ‘Thundercracker’, Mr Stark,” said Jarvis, uselessly. “There are currently forty six vehicles within the Tower, and the tag ‘Thundercracker’ is the only one filed as a jet or other type of plane.”

Tony raised his head and stared at Thundercracker, eyes narrowing as the information for the hangar scrolled past him, revealing nothing about the origins or destination of Thundercracker’s purple twin. “And  _ un _ tagged vehicles?”

“The only other vehicles capable of flight within the Tower are the Iron Man suits on floor three-A and the Quin-Zero-Two project in sub-basement-A,” clarified Jarvis before falling silent. 

Tony straightened, dismissing the systems on the desk as he stepped around to glare at Thundercracker. He pointed an accusing finger at the jet, scowl deepening, his words coming out in a hiss. “You  _ won’t _ break me.”

Thundercracker didn’t respond, sitting in the hangar where he always had, unmoving. 

**Author's Note:**

> The more seriously I took this the less sense it made lmao. I'm supposed to be writing other things, please do enjoy this nonsense. Other characters from the franchises will be showing up, tags will be added as I go.


End file.
